A Short Story

The window is cracked a couple inches; just enough to feel an occasional draft. I've never been fond of this beach house until recently, as recent as yesterday actually. I always felt alone. Even with the company of a gardener who invited himself over for coffee. Even when coffee turned into dinner and dinner led to a seemingly intimate conversation, but, felt more like a drawn out questionnaire for me. I like being alone usually. I like the feeling of waking up diagonally in a king-size bed; falling asleep to the sound of a ceiling fan and my own breaths. I like my morning walks on the beach, reminding me of my aloneness. But, the vast seascape sizes me down to a grain of sand-- a grain of sand that someone’s dog probably pissed on. And when I walk back into my house and have coffee for one, I convince myself at how "liberating" it is to live alone.
At the beach house, there's no escape from the whelming thoughts that finally have space in my mind. If I could find comfort in television, I would turn it on. But, it doesn’t distract or move me. I envy the people who come home from stressful work days and zone out for an hour. But I can't "zone out." I have very little coping mechanisms. I practice yoga and palates. I generally feel more attractive and healthy when my inner thighs are toned and I can exhale for two minutes. But, more often than not, I put away my unflattering spandex and remind myself that self-esteem is basically, bull-shit. Some genius propagated it so I could feel okay without other human affirmation or affection. This sums up every beach weekend I've had for the last couple years, until, of course, this one.
Yesterday, the gardener invited himself over to make me dinner. It may be his ignorance, or persistence, or my lack of assertion, that makes him so confident that I enjoy his company, but I really don't. I don't enjoy someone sharing himself with me when he has the smallest idea of who I am. I answered his continuing questions , but from what he knows of me, he should have very little interest. Consequently, I told the gardener with frankness,
"I'm not going to lie to you and say that hearing myself chew dinner is music to my ears, or, watching the moon pull the tide at night with only my cup of wine, keeps me company... Being alone doesn't beat being loved (at this point he's poking at his pile of freshly pulled weeds). But feeling loved is different than being loved... and I don't think I want to feel loved again..."
My words hung there, still attached to my tongue until he replied in a somewhat uncomfortable, "okay." I smiled slightly, then took the little path between the hedges that led to the beach. I love the beach. It humbles me and keeps me honest.

A Primitive, Simple Kind

Mud pies, mud sliding and grass stains
Blueberry picking and Autumn's rain
The smell of wooden barrels and dusty novels
My little world is so cliche

Some of us think too much
And feed the cynical old man inside
I wish I could be everyone to everyone
I find freedom when I'm unable

One could take a crow bar to my mind
And find, a primitive, simple kind
My profound thoughts have been thought before
But possibly never noticed

I know the fear of recognition
I know the empty cup it fills
Oh, I do know empty recognition
I know that emptiness

"But You"

I don't know what wrote my genetic code
But I have a vague impression
That its sense of humor is somewhat cruel
But fair when the court's in session

I need a chance, a moment to break off
From my trains of thought-it can drive a human mad
My insufficiencies spawn my tendencies
To make others feel less than I am

But, please, please, let me be
The gum underneath your shoe

"You"

Turn Into Highways (song lyrics)

Life is young
A tree house for fun
It doesn't matter what may come
'Cause life is young

Two brothers
And a sister
They get older and boy I miss them
But life and I are young

When Mom and Dad are gone
I turn the whole house upside down
It becomes my wilderness
Life is the best

Chorus:

But so it goes
The orchard rows
Turn into highways
The woods I play in
The fields I lay in
Now require pay

The shoes that I wore
Do not fit me any more
But I do not like shoes anyway

Sundays are just another day
I put my sun hats and dresses away
But I know that it will be okay

I catch frogs and polliwogs
I talk with my dog and my pet rocks
And I know that life will work out fine

Chorus:

So it goes the orchard rows
Turn into highways
The woods that i play in
The fields that i lay in
Now require pay

Sooner than I can say it
The grass turns into pavement
But I know that I can drive someday
And find my way

tag:
But who's to say
That those highways
Didn't bring me here?

Summer's Crest

(September 2008)

The crest of the summer

Right now it rains

The sun is a drummer

Autumn a parade



My senses released

To soak what’s left

The birds and the bees

Swift and deft



The roses are bunched

With nets, covered

The geese have a hunch

For southern comfort



I lounge in the grass

I outline the clouds

A giant canvas

Of sky surrounds



Autumn is creeping

Behind the trees

Beaver dams heaping

with sticks and leaves



Aww, the summer’s crest!

The butterflies diverge…

Soon all the rest

Approach Winter's Surge…

Toes

There are few things that my toes like more than digging into the sand, snuggled wool socks, pavement in the sun, hot springs after cold hiking boots, slippery rocks in a river, a chilly puddle, burrowing into mud, waking up to a warm bed, or dangling off the dock to ripple the water. My toes, however, find themselves cooped up in a sock, cooped up in a shoe. They don’t always live pervasively. They don’t indulge in Life’s delights day in and day out.

My toes share a similar position with my heart: cooped up inside my chest cavity, beating tepidly, providing minimal heat to the rest of my body and those around me. It’s not aches, pains, moans and groans. It’s the transition from torrents of water, to a drizzling brook. I love the intricacy of friendships, camaraderie of family, an intimate faith in God, a sudden birth of romance. But I suppose Love doesn’t birth itself without labor.

My heart finds difficulty plunging into pleasure when it’s cooped up inside my humanness. My “humanness” consists of everything I do that does not apply to my purest vision of “perfect” life: running errands, school and work stress, dealing with financial issues--the mundane, or the “blemishes” of life.

The heart is naturally—primitive. It’s more instinctual desiring a game of scrabble with my mother over working a ten hour shift, or having a drink with an old friend over scheduling a plumber. I miss the primitive.

My toes get sweaty and anxious when they’re inside my shoes too long. I suppose it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to realize that my heart feels the same.